


in the moments after

by orthogonals



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Elysium, Fluff, M/M, No Angst rly, POV Achilles (Song of Achilles), Post-Canon, afterlife fluff, just something that feels good after reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 07:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20238805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orthogonals/pseuds/orthogonals
Summary: A shade has no real physical body, not even in Elysium. Here, we are granted only a sense of the corporeal—the rush of spring water on sticky skin, the scent of fresh earth, the tickle of grass beneath our feet. But all that we are— appearance, voice, dress— comes from our spirit.I am nothing but soul, and half my soul is missing.---What happens after they reunite in Hades, from Achilles' perspective.





	in the moments after

In the moments before, I know. I cannot say how any more than a spider can tell how to spin a web or a goat how to climb. I felt it like the quiet before a storm, when the air hovers still and the birds hush in the trees.

A shade has no real physical body, not even in Elysium. Here, we are granted only a sense of the corporeal—the rush of spring water on sticky skin, the scent of fresh earth, the tickle of grass beneath our feet. But all that we are— appearance, voice, dress— comes from our spirit.

I am nothing but soul, and half my soul is missing.

Like the others, he comes shrouded in shadow. I cannot distinguish the shades, all blank faces who wear darkness around their shoulders. But I know, and my phantom heart drums an impossible rhythm into my throat. Something buzzes and kicks in my stomach.

I run. No man can run faster than I, just a smear in the idle landscape that stretches past sight. He may not want me. I am prepared to drop to my knees.

I run until the air thins, until the promise of his presence buzzes against me like licking fire. He stands unmoving in the distance, silent, a dark monolith piercing the sky, and a spear of trepidation slices through my chest. I cannot see his face.

Before I have drawn near, I halt, blood coloring my cheeks. Elysium has hidden her souls, but she has yet been kind— it seems not weeks since Paris slew me with his arrow. Patroclus has strayed past time in the world of the living, and I cannot bear to reason why he might have done so. Whenever I ponder this, I feel as if drowned in cold water.

But we reach our hands out at the same time, a mirror reflection, even with steps of distance still separating our feet.

When our fingers twine, light breaks and beams through the cracks in our bodies. It is the light that Elysium could not bring, bursting forth with a glow brighter than that of thousand suns.

I can see his face, and I weep.

*

The slope of a rolling hill, pristine and flushed with spring, arcs up behind our backs. Patroclus holds me against his chest, our arms tangled together. His chin rests heavy on my shoulder.

“I sent you to your death.” My voice croaks, scratchy from the tears I have shed, raw from repeating this line. There is a gaping tear in my heart; I cannot forget.

He gathers me in tighter, his words a warm brush against my ear. “You could not have known.”

“I could not see past myself.” I could not sacrifice my honor, what I had spent ten years building. The glory for which I had bargained my life away. Ten years of service, of bloodstained armor five days every seven, of countless Trojans slain and countless Greeks saved, and I was treated like no more than a worm crushed underfoot.

But no amount of honor or glory merited the expense of Patroclus’ life. Of Patroclus’ blinking eyes in the morning, the heat of his body against mine at night. Of slow smiles and soft words and sweet kisses. He was the one thing I could not afford to lose, and I suffered righteously for forgetting.

“The blame is not for you alone to carry.”

A huff of laughter escapes my mouth. I tilt my head back to catch a glimpse of his face. His almond-brown skin, radiant with life, his dark eyes, open and watching. _Alive. With me. _

“It was my pride and my fall. Who else can take the guilt?”

He shrugs, leaning forward and kissing the tip of my nose. “Honor. Glory. They were woven into the fabric of your life from the beginning. You knew no further.”

He speaks with candor, even as he cradles me in his arms. I do not feel insulted.

“You are wrong.” I say, idly rubbing the smooth skin at the junction of his thumb and forefinger. I lift his hand and press a kiss against his palm. “I knew you.”

He laughs, a delighted sound, and lazily traces patterns on my neck with his lips. Desire mounts and rushes across my skin, the crest of a wave, making me shiver. I manage to tell him before the want spills over.

“I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's kinda funny that Achilles is like the opposite of "I got soul but I'm not a soldier." Got prompts? Send them my way on [tumblr](https://orthogonals.tumblr.com)!


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